


After

by Nellasaur



Series: The Practical User's Guide to Responsible Cybertronian BDSM [1]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gags, M/M, POV Second Person, PWP without Porn, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 01:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2369891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellasaur/pseuds/Nellasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After you're both spent, you reflect on your partner Breakdown and the fun you have together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short little piece of porny flashfic that was inspired by [this TFP fanart](http://skymachine.tumblr.com/post/97914951306/happy-birthday-magnumformer) by skymachine on tumblr (link VERY NSFW). This fic was originally posted on my tumblr [here](http://nellasaur.tumblr.com/post/98525774535/lesnee-skymachine-happy-birthday); this edition is slightly longer and definitely better edited.

You look at him, kneeling at your feet, bound in glowing cable and tethered to you by a length of black cording and a stout collar, and you think he's rarely looked more beautiful. You tug on the leash, forcing his head back, and your optics shutter half-way in pleasure as you listen to his averbal little grunts, the only response he can make around the gag in his mouth.

He's a frightful mess, venting hot and sheened with condensate in the cool air of your shared quarters, dripping coolant and lubricant and datafluid helplessly across the floor. It was your deft fingers teasing his anchor node and your clever electroreactive knots and your exquisite knowledge of his body that reduced him to this. The session was intense for both of you, your longest one yet, and it's because of that that this is a mess you can be proud of. Particularly, you're proud of the spurt of fluid splashed on his helm and across his shoulder-- your own overload ejecta, and the fact that he was able to trigger it just by nuzzling at your cabling with the side of his face is marvelous.

_He's_ marvelous.

You start to coil up the leash, towing yourself across the room with a gentle pressure that he resists effortlessly even now. Overcome he may be, but he's still Breakdown, your rock, your anchor. You feel sometimes like you could orbit around him. 

Tilting his face up to yours with clawed fingers, you give him a little nuzzle of your own.

"Good boy," you murmur. His throat works under your hand with audible little noises as he struggles not to drool on your fingers. It's a losing struggle, of course, and his chin is already streaked with lubricant, but the sheer _consideration_ of it, even after everything you've put him through in this session, overwhelms you. "You did very good this time," emphasis on very. You kiss the crest of his helm. "I'm proud of you."

He grunts again, more emphatically now. You take his meaning easily, releasing him and backing off just far enough to see the little indicator lights on his hips flash deliberately, three times. He's had enough of the gag.

Kneeling in front of him, you unfasten the strap holding the bit into his mouth and pull it gently free. He works his mouth, licking coolant off his lips, and smiles crookedly up at you. "Iridium, doc," he says, his voice slow and sleepy. Iriduim means he's completely done-- as opposed to rhodium, _slow down_ , and cobalt, _blue for go_. "Gotta fuel line crimping up in my elbow."

You're happy to untie him-- you had a few more tricks tucked away in your plating if he'd checked in with rhodium or cobalt instead, but this is the longest you've ever made it together and you'd been contemplating calling iridium yourself. Submission like this-- physical helplessness-- is still new to Breakdown, but now that he's committed himself to exploring it with you, you know it's up to _you_ to keep him from blowing past his boundaries out of sheer stubbornness.

\--Or ignorance. You still remember vividly your abbreviated first session, with only a pair analog restraint cuffs holding him to a sturdy seat while you worked his interface cabling over with your mouth, and the way he apologized after his thrashing panic for not being good enough, for not pulling it off, for forgetting the safewords, for ruining the evening. 

You weren't planning on suggesting it again. Some people just don't take to bondage, and you can get your fill of kink from the other games the two of you play together. You like your partner tying you down just as much as tying your partner up, and you and Breakdown have found more than enough thrilling configurations together absent ropes and cuffs and physical restraint. You don't need this to be happy with him, and you made sure to tell him that as you stroked his engine back down to idle after that first time he tapped out on you. It wasn't until much later, when Breakdown himself brought you a spool of energon cabling and one of your own private datapads with some of the images bookmarked that you'd even allowed yourself to _consider_ trying a scene like this again. 

You're so very, very glad he was willing to give it another chance. 

Glowing loops of that same energon cabling fall away. This has become one of your favorite toys; the cable is faintly electroreactive, triggering a sensation like stroking fingers anywhere it crosses sensor-innervated plating, and you were very careful to tie over only the most sensitive parts of your partner's exterior. Breakdown brings his arms in front of himself, stretching his shoulders and elbows methodically as you get started on his ankles. "How's your elbow?" you ask him.

Noncommittally, he grunts. "Little sore. I could work it out in the washracks, probably."

Wrapping up the last of the cable, you tie the bundle off and set it aside, then help him to his feet. He may be your rock but it's your turn to support him as his systems re-equilibrate to being upright. The mess on his plating is smearing onto you as you hold him up, but you don't mind. Instead, you beam up at him and you pull his arm across your shoulders. 

"The washracks it is," you say. "I'll scrub your back if you scrub mine." And his rear fender, and the open hatch between his legs where his throbbing valve still leaks the ejecta of his overload, and the lubricant and coolant streaked along his thighs... 

The first time you went into the washracks together after a session, he'd been strangely sheepish about it, but it's become an important after-session ritual for both of you. And just as much as the unselfconscious way he's still wearing your collar, just as much as the fact that he regularly lets you tie him up and do wicked, dirty things to him, it's the way he leans on you now and lets you help him into the shower that makes your spark soar with affection for him.


End file.
